


Don't use your language, just use your mouth

by thetimesinbetween



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Jon Favreau's unbearable earnestness, Jon Lovett's fascinating relationship with human touch, M/M, Public Display of Affection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 19:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20158606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetimesinbetween/pseuds/thetimesinbetween
Summary: Lovett has always been weird about touch, especially in public. Jon can work with that.





	Don't use your language, just use your mouth

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [okaystop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/okaystop/pseuds/okaystop) for the read through, and thanks to [persuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/persuna/pseuds/persuna), [ruthvsreality](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruthvsreality/pseuds/ruthvsreality), and [SelfRescuingPrincess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelfRescuingPrincess/pseuds/SelfRescuingPrincess) for cheerleading/general enthusiasm. 
> 
> Title credit: ["Language" by Betty Who](www.youtube.com/watch?v=UCm-MDwersc). 
> 
> This is RPF, so please be thoughtful about how and where you share it. Definitely do not share this with anyone connected to Crooked. Thanks!

**1.**

They’ve been dating for a month or two and Lovett remains pretty stingy with nonsexual physical affection, especially in public. 

Then one regular Tuesday, Lovett rolls into work at 10:45 a.m. like usual, drops his bags on the couch in the founders’ office like usual—but before he plops down on the couch like usual, he crosses over to Jon’s desk. He runs a sweet, proprietary hand over Jon’s hair and kisses his forehead. Then he resumes his regular couch plopping activities.

Jon’s heart is beating double time. He’s blushing. He can only half-contain a huge smile. He can’t make a big deal of this in public, otherwise Lovett will clam up and never do it again. But he feels like he’s about to explode with joy and affection. 

He accidentally makes eye contact with Tommy, who clearly caught the whole exchange. Tommy gives him a discreet thumbs-up. Jon gives up on holding his smile in and just beams. He honestly beams the rest of the day.

  


**2\. **

On Thursday afternoon, the whole office takes a break from work to cut cake and have a glass of champagne in celebration of Tanya’s birthday and the planet’s continued survival. There is some (bad) singing, some (good) cake, and one (fantastically competitive) game of jumbo jenga. 

Lovett, two drinks in, is on a mission. He needs to get through the tight space between Jon and the windows. He should have gone around the long jenga table the other way. But the last slice of cake with strawberry filling awaits him on the other side. It’s too late to turn back now. If he delays, he’ll end up with a sad side piece with no filling. 

Jon, for his part, lost track of Lovett a while ago. He’s extremely focused on the jenga. Both Tommy and Priyanka are playing, so Jon can’t afford to lose a moment of strategizing. 

Jon feels two hands squeezing his hips. He gasps, quietly—he knows those hands, and those hands know just how much he likes to be held tightly.

“Move, I’m gay,” Lovett says right at Jon’s shoulder. Jon doesn’t know if he’s joking, or covering, or both, but he laughs regardless. Lovett moves him in and to the side, and still has to brush his whole body against Jon’s to slip past him. 

He gives Jon an extra hard squeeze before he lets go. 

Jon watches him go, smiling with wild abandon. He feels giddy—utterly giddy—like he’s in middle school and his team just won the baseball game. 

It’s also his turn. 

He has forgotten all his strategic ideas and knocks over the jenga tower immediately. 

Priyanka punches the air in excitement, and then tracks down a confused, cake-filled Lovett to high-five him in thanks. Lovett goes pink, looking a little uncomfortable—but not too bad, Jon hopes. Tommy groans and puts his face in his palms. “Your love is a hazard,” he says from behind his hands.

Jon cracks up, and starts gathering up the wooden blocks. He can’t say he feels a lick of disappointment. 

  


**3.**

A couple months later, they’re setting up for the Wednesday livestream. Travis is still out at lunch, but Priyanka is curled up on the couch, clicking through various social media feeds to round out the fun questions. Elijah is behind the desk, double-checking the audio levels. Jon is copying and pasting results from a few different polls into a reference sheet—he peeked through the substantive questions a minute ago and knows he’ll need the info at hand. 

They’re mostly waiting on Lovett, who has been antsy all morning. When he comes into the room for the third time carrying various items (this time, LaCroix and a fountain pen, but nothing to write on), and _still_ doesn’t sit down, Jon reaches out and nudges his elbow, briefly. 

“Hey.” It won’t help to ask what’s wrong—and even if Lovett is in the mood to accept help, Jon knows he won’t say so until after the livestream. “Why don’t you go get the dogs?” he says. 

The dogs always help. 

Lovett looks down at him, the set of his mouth a little strange, not clueing Jon in to anything. Jon wonders if even this small, oblique intimacy was a mistake. 

Lovett returns two minutes later with Pundit under one arm and Leo under the other. Pundit is licking his face vigorously, and Lovett is scolding her through laughter, with no hand free to defend himself. He drops Pundit off first, settling her next to Priyanka on the couch, one of her favorite spots. Then he carries Leo over and puts him right in Jon’s lap. 

“For easy access,” he jokes, nonsensically, covering. Jon smiles anyway. Even a terrible joke is a good sign with Lovett. Maybe Jon helped a little, after all. 

Unexpectedly, Lovett’s whole face softens, and he leans down and kisses Jon on the cheek. “Thank you,” he murmurs. 

Jon is glowing inside. _Of course_, he wants to answer. But he doesn’t want to ask any more of Lovett. He’ll tell him later. He’ll tell him in private, where Lovett feels good, where Jon can be as ridiculous as he’d like, where he can kiss the round, sweet apple of Lovett’s cheek in return, and then the other cheek, and then the first one again for good measure—

Pundit barks, and Leo jumps up, digging one small but powerful paw right into Jon’s balls. “_Why_, Leo,” he groans—

“God _damn_ it, Elijah!” Lovett interrupts. 

“Dog content! Engagement!” Elijah responds. He still has his phone out, pointing at Pundit, who has jumped off the couch to bark at the door. 

Lovett narrows his eyes. “How long have you been recording?” he asks. 

“Uh, since you came in here with one doodle per arm. What do you think you pay me for?” Elijah replies, laughing. 

Lovett’s face goes expressionless and then, half a second later, he rolls his eyes performatively. “Great,” he says, sarcastic. “Just great. Today is fantastic. Let’s just—start the stream.” 

  


**4.**

Lovett doesn’t touch him outside of their respective houses for the next week and a half. (Well, and their yards. Jon has several fond memories of things he’d never thought he’d do in his pool.)

Jon tries not to let his disappointment show. He knows Lovett has a hard time with this. He knew it when they started dating, even, and he’s never wavered in his conviction that it’s worth it. He’s determined to go at Lovett’s pace.

Still, it hurts when Jon claps Lovett on the shoulder and he flinches before he can fake relaxation, even though Jon did the exact same thing to Tommy seconds earlier, very platonically. It hurts when Lovett arrives in the morning and clearly _starts_ going to Jon’s desk to kiss his forehead—his new morning hello—before freezing and retreating back to the couch without ever touching him. 

Jon adjusts. He gets in as much home-based cuddle time as Lovett will allow. In public, Jon pointedly doesn’t make a fuss. Besides, he can feel close to Lovett in other ways—laughing at his jokes, teasing him, getting him Diet Coke, scratching Pundit’s ears until she flips over to beg for belly rubs and Lovett looks over at him with his heart all over his face.

They remain in this holding pattern until the next round of live shows—Santa Barbara on Monday, Oakland on Tuesday, and Portland on Thursday. 

In deference to Jon’s flight anxiety, the climate crisis, and their bottom line, they roadtrip on their way out, with plans to fly back. The two-hour drive to Santa Barbara is quick and fun, but they’re pretty tired during the eight-hour journey to Oakland the next day. 

A few hours in, Tommy and Elijah are both conked out in the back of the van. Travis is reclining over a couple seats in the middle of the van, alternately tapping at his phone and staring out the window. 

Jon and Lovett are sitting on opposite sides of the same bench, a row up from Travis. Lovett’s been curled up with his headphones on for about an hour. Jon had been catching up on Slack, but now he’s really hitting an energy wall, and they aren’t due to take another bathroom break for a couple of hours. He should take the time to sleep. They have a long few days ahead. 

He tries leaning against the window. A classic. But he still has a crick in his neck from the drive to Santa Barbara. He tries turning sideways and putting his legs up on the seat, with sweatshirt stuffed between his head and the seatback. He’s tall enough that he could stretch out and tuck his toes under Lovett’s thighs, or slouch a little more and put his legs in Lovett’s lap. Instead, he carefully bends his knees and stays out of Lovett’s space. 

It doesn’t work. He gets close to sleep a few times, but every time he drops off, his muscles go lax and his legs fall off the seat, or his head drops forward. 

After the fifth try, he reaches peak grumpiness. He tries to rearrange himself in some fresh, heretofore undiscovered way. Could he prop his knees on the back of the seat in front of him? Not without shredding all the muscles in his back. Could he sleep curled over his backpack in his own lap? No, it kills his neck and makes him feel carsick. 

“Move over,” Lovett says, suddenly right next to him. 

“Huh?” Jon replies, muzzy. 

“Move,” Lovett says. He clambers over Jon and squeezes his entire body between Jon and the window. 

“Uh?” Jon says. 

“Move _over_,” Lovett says. He pushes the bottom of his socked feet against Jon’s thigh until he has enough space to sit crosslegged, propped up against the corner made by the seat and the window. 

Apparently they’re switching seats. Jon shoves his backpack off his lap. That experiment is a clear failure, too unpleasant to be repeated. Maybe he’ll try putting his head against the window where Lovett was sitting until just a minute ago. Could be it’ll bother the crick in his neck less, leaning that way instead. 

“What are you doing?” Lovett says when Jon shifts over to the other window. 

“Trying to sleep,” Jon croaks. “Badly.” 

“I know _that_,” Lovett says, rolling his eyes. “Get _over_ here, dumbass.” 

He holds out his arms. 

“Oh,” Jon says, quiet. He’s touched. “Lovett—”

“I said come here,” Lovett cuts him off. He wraps his arms around Jon’s waist—pauses—and when Jon doesn’t tense up or pull away, he pulls Jon across the seat until his whole torso is in Lovett’s lap. 

“Get some rest, huh?” Lovett murmurs into Jon’s hair. He nestles Jon’s head against his chest. Jon’s legs are stretched out across the rest of the bench seat. Lovett’s arms are locked around Jon’s waist, tight, keeping him secure. He won’t roll off the seat and wake himself up, if Lovett holds him like this. 

He’s so tired, and so comfortable, and Lovett smells so good and so safe, that he can feel himself dropping off almost immediately.

“Lovett,” he murmurs, almost asleep. 

“Sleep, Jon,” Lovett replies. He’s so warm. “Just go to sleep.” 

Jon starts to smile, and then he’s gone. 

When he wakes up a couple hours later, he’s still in Lovett’s lap. He’s on his belly, between Lovett’s stretched-out legs, his head now pillowed on Lovett’s stomach. Lovett is slouching, propped in the corner with the aid of several sweatshirts and what looks like Tommy’s copy of _Say Nothing_, also asleep. One of his hands is resting on his own chest. The other is on the back of Jon’s neck. 

Jon goes hot all over, then reminds himself that they are in a van with several of their employees and a long ride ahead. 

He doesn’t want to move, though. Getting to touch Lovett this much while on tour, hundreds of miles from the privacy of their homes, is unheard of. A precious resource.

He carefully slides his phone out of his own back pocket and unlocks it, looking for enough of a distraction that he’ll be able to lay here with Lovett’s hand on his neck without actually getting hard. 

There are a whole bunch of notifications waiting for him, including a message from Travis in the group chat comprised of Travis, Jon, and Lovett. 

Travis is sitting literally three feet away from them. What could he possibly need to text?

The message reads, “It is dangerous to disturb the delicate mating dance of the Lovettepithecus. Researchers are advised to observe but not approach. Note that intense glare may cause temporary paralysis and/or loss of wages.” 

In the attached picture, Lovett is giving Travis a death glare. But his hands are lax, his arms cradling Jon carefully against his chest. 

On the one hand, Jon feels a sharp surge of protectiveness. Travis clearly knows that Lovett feels weird about this, so why not leave it alone? Lovett doesn’t need another reason to shy away from Jon’s touch.

On the other hand, Jon woke up—he checks—over an hour after Travis texted them this picture, still in Lovett’s arms. Which means that, however irritated Lovett had been, it had been more important to him to keep holding Jon while he slept. 

Jon feels his face go warm and, unable to stop himself, nuzzles into Lovett’s stomach, pressing a kiss to what turns out to be his ribs. Lovett’s hand tightens briefly on his neck before going limp with sleep again. Jon wants to set off fireworks—he wants to run—he wants to tackle something—!

Jonathan Ira Lovett _adores_ him. Jon closes his eyes and hides his smile in Lovett’s shirt, glowing.

  


**5\. **

“So I was like, I don’t know, I think it sounds cooler to say ‘regolith,’” Lovett is saying. He has the rapt attention of their entire (quite drunk) table, as well as a few stragglers. 

“Nooo,” Jon groans, clueing in immediately. He ruins the effect of the groan, though, by not quite covering his grin with his hand. 

The Oakland show earlier that night had gone off without a hitch. Afterwards, they’d piled into an Uber XL—proud, exhausted, very ready for a drink or five. 

The first bar was a wash, but the second is fantastic—classic dark wood, a big booth that they managed to snag, every variety of local beer you could think of, and a list of about fifteen weird mixed drinks that Akilah and Elijah have insisted they’ll work their way through. 

Lovett is, as always, undeterred by all outside input: “And Favreau here says, no, no one’s going to know what ‘regolith’ is.” 

“Noooo,” Jon repeats, now covering his smile with both hands. A giggle escapes despite his best efforts.

“And I was like, hmm, I don’t know,_ I think it sounds cooler to say ‘regolith,’_” Lovett says. 

Jon puts his forehead down on the sticky table, laughing, drunk and warm and happy. 

“And Jon says, do you really think Barack Obama is going to say ‘regolith,’ a word literally no one has ever heard in their entire life?” Lovett continues. 

Jon peeks up at him from beneath his own arm. Lovett’s his face is lit up with everyone’s attention, but his eyes are fixed on Jon. 

Lovett goes on, “And I said, can we at least leave it in and see what the President thinks?” 

Jon sits up. It’s his cue. “And I said ‘yeah,’ and then I crossed out ‘regolith’ and wrote in ‘sand,’”—the table cracks up as one, and Jon has to pause to laugh, so he can finish—”because no one has ever heard of ‘regolith’ in their _fucking lives_.” 

Lovett’s mock-glaring at him, but it’s completely ineffective, because he’s laughing too. 

“Thanks for stealing my punchline,” he grumbles, elbowing Jon in the side. 

“It was my punchline first, if you recall,” Jon replies, elbowing him back. 

“You fucker,” Lovett replies, clearly too drunk to come up with a more specific insult. 

“I mean, some nights,” Jon replies, perfectly on beat, grinning big when he makes Lovett laugh again.

Lovett’s still laughing when he slings an arm around Jon’s waist and pulls him flush against his side. “Look at us, huh?” he says. He props his chin on Jon’s shoulder. “We’ve come a long way from moon sand.”

“Yeah,” Jon replies. He wants to kiss him so badly. He won’t do it, not here. But he lets his eyes flick down to Lovett’s lips, and back to his eyes. _I’d kiss you_, he lets his face say. _I’d kiss you for saying that._

Lovett startles back, taking his chin off Jon’s shoulder. He starts to unwrap his arm from Jon’s waist too. Jon runs his fingers lightly over the back of Lovett’s hand, no weight behind it, and Lovett slows. 

“If you need to—but—it’s nice,” Jon says quietly, and immediately regrets it. 

Lovett squeezes Jon’s hip, and then extricates his arm. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I—”

“Don’t be,” Jon cuts him off. “Don’t be sorry.” 

“I’m getting there,” Lovett says, catching Jon’s eyes, holding them. 

Jon thinks he should probably tell Lovett not to worry about it—or, at least, not to push himself. Maybe that’s a conversation for another time and place, though, not a bar surrounded by their drunk friends. 

“Thank you,” he says instead. Lovett gives him a small, sweet, closemouthed smile. It’s the smile he keeps tucked in his dimple and brings out only for special occasions, Jon thinks to himself, because he’s drunk and in love. 

Sure, Jon admits, yes. He wants Lovett to touch him all the time. But this—sharing a stage, drinking together, telling their friends stories about their early days, one of Lovett’s rarest smiles—this is more than enough. 

  


**+1. **

“And have—a great—night!” Jon shouts over the roar of the Portland crowd. 

The stage lights make it hard to actually see the crowd, but their yells are making his sternum vibrate, geez. He waves out at the indistinguishable mass of them, squinting. Tommy tries to bolt off the stage immediately, per usual, but Akilah snags him before he’s even out of his chair. 

Jon barely has time to process any of it—one second he’s watching Dan clap Tommy on the shoulder, laughing, and then time freezes, because Lovett is right there, right in front of him, reaching up to him, pulling him down—_kissing_ him?!

Kissing him! 

Jon is the one who breaks the kiss, a second later, because he’s smiling too big to do anything useful with his lips. As soon as Lovett opens his eyes and draws back—he’s going down _off his tippy toes_, Jon realizes, feeling like his heart is about to burst—the sound of the crowd filters back in. 

The noise has taken on a distinct whistling-and-screaming quality. 

“Okay,” Lovett says to himself, still staring up at Jon. His eyes are huge. 

“O–kay?” Jon replies, stunned. 

“Okay,” Lovett repeats, firmly this time, and breaks eye contact. He walks shakily to the edge of the stage, and ignores the crowd until he manages to grab a mic from Travis. 

“Please relax, perverts,” Lovett declares, voice booming over the screams. He rolls his shoulders and settles into his usual stage posture, resting his weight on one leg, raising his eyebrows. “Jon and I are together, and now you know, and we’re all going to be very chill and not creepy about this.”

The crowd does not sound chill about this.

“_Capeesh_?” Lovett yells over the din. “I can’t believe I just said capeesh like some sort of mob boss. I am threatening you, though, Portland. _This is a gay threat_.”

“Oh my god,” Jon says, slowly, and then he throws his head back and laughs. 

“Holy shit,” Tommy says, somewhere behind him. Possibly on some other plane of existence entirely. Surely Jon has entered a new dimension. 

Oh god, maybe Jon will be able to talk Lovett into holding his hand when they walk the dogs. Jon has been fantasizing about that for months. 

“I don’t want any more DMs asking if I did in fact kiss Jon’s cheek, or if I regularly give neck massages to my cohosts. We are going to be _chill_, people!” 

“...Is this going to be like the hissing?” Dan says, behind them. 

The five of them on stage laugh, which confuses the crowd, because Dan’s mic isn’t on. 

“Dan just asked if this is going to be like the hissing,” Lovett repeats into the mic, and now the crowd laughs too. Some of them begin to hiss at the mere mention of hissing. Lovett lets them go for a minute, and then fixes them with a glare. “It’s _not_ going to be like _the hissing_. Is it, Portland?” 

“Hell no!” someone near the front yells, loud enough that the mic picks it up, and the crowd chuckles again. 

“Hell no,” Lovett says. “That’s right. You’re going to be very—very, um, obedient. Hmm, awkward. I mean—very relaxed. Very _appropriate_. No one is going to yell at me about taking Favreau here off the market. Everybody is going to act like mature, non-monster adults about this. Our youtube comments. Our mentions. They’re. Going. To. Be. So. Normal. _Capeesh?_” 

The crowd is chuckling, a warm rumble that says they’re in on the joke, that this is somehow part of the regular order of business. This is a new rant, part of the rotation, and they’re expecting to hear Lovett complain about it for the next several months. 

Lovett rocks his weight onto his other leg, like he’s not sure whether to continue. 

_Enough_, Jon thinks. He wants to get Lovett alone. 

Jon sneaks the mic out of Lovett’s hand. “And..._that’s_ our show,” he says, beaming. 

The crowd absolutely bellows. 

He leaves it at that, switching off the mic and handing it back to Travis. 

When he turns back around, Lovett is looking at him, unreadable. Or scared, maybe. 

Jon takes his hand—the crowd yells a little louder—and doesn’t bother to wave or look back as he leads Lovett off the stage. 

As soon as they’re alone—deep in the wings, not quite to the prep room—he kisses Lovett. Really, properly kisses him. He sets Lovett against a wall and gets a hand in his sweaty curls, and just gives himself over to it. 

It doesn’t take long for Lovett’s shoulders to go twitchy in the way that means he has something to say but doesn’t want to stop making out long enough to say it. (This happens a lot. It was one of the first new tells Jon had to learn when they started hooking up.) 

Jon kisses his cheek instead, and his ear. Then he steps back, and just waits. There’s no point in rushing an anxious Lovett. 

“Was it too much?” Lovett finally bursts out. “I’m sorry. I should have—I’ve always—”

“It wasn’t too much,” Jon says, but Lovett’s still going. 

“I’ve always gotten past things by just forcing myself, just—pulling the plug, barrelling through, damn the consequences, you know—but I don’t—you’re—”

“You did _great_,” Jon tries to interrupt. 

“You shouldn’t be a secret,” Lovett insists. “I know I wanted us to keep it quiet for a while, but I never want you to think I’m—hiding you.” 

“I didn’t think that,” Jon says. 

“You don’t deserve that—that closeted bullshit,” Lovett says, emphatic. 

“It’s okay to take some time, to be sure,” Jon starts saying, but Lovett blows past him. 

“But it should have been your decision too,” Lovett is saying, looking angry now, though Jon’s not sure if the anger is directed at Jon or at himself. “I shouldn’t have—it wasn’t fair to you.” 

“Jon,” Jon says, even though it feels weird to say his own name so sweetly. 

Lovett swallows, and bites his lips. 

“I’m proud of you,” Jon says. 

Lovett tears up right away, then ducks his head. “Okay, you don’t have to be condescending about it,” he says, thickly. 

“I’m only going to let you get away with that for about thirty seconds, so you better figure out a better way to deflect,” Jon replies, wry. 

“Defensive self-sabotage isn’t working? Should I start a brawl?” Lovett says. “Should I storm out?” 

“No,” Jon says and, not able to help himself, kisses Lovett again. He kisses him for a good long while, until all the tension has drained back out of Lovett’s shoulders and he’s got both arms wrapped around Jon’s neck. 

“This doesn’t mean I’m gonna cuddle you all the time,” Lovett says, right up against his lips, when they take a tiny breather. 

“I know that, Lovett,” Jon says. 

“You want to cuddle _all the time_,” Lovett says. 

“Mmm,” Jon says, nuzzling beneath Lovett’s ear. 

“Like, obviously I am an unusual gremlin, but—_god_.” 

Jon has rediscovered the good spot behind his ear. 

“But _you_! You’re a limpet!” Lovett gasps when Jon applies teeth. “Is—_oh_—is the term ‘limpet’ misogynist?” he asks, with some difficulty. 

“Hmmm,” Jon replies, working his way down Lovett’s throat. 

“What I mean is, you would literally wear me like a tiny gay backpack if I let you,” Lovett says, which sounds insane, but Jon does know exactly what he means, and it’s true. “And I realize that I am spiky and it’s annoying when—” Jon has found one particular spot where his neck and shoulder connect, which is one of his real favorites “—um, the—the, um—when the person you’re dating doesn’t want to touch you as much.” 

Jon gives his throat one more kiss and draws back. This does seem to be going somewhere. 

“But you have to admit that you are the opposite extreme. You are just as extreme!” Lovett insists. He jabs Jon in the chest, gently.

“That’s true,” Jon says. He takes the jabby hand in both of his. 

“So you admit it!” Lovett crows.

“I decided I wasn’t going to push it,” Jon replies. “I haven’t pushed, have I?” 

“...No,” says Lovett, looking up at him, his face curiously open. 

“So, that works then. Right?” Jon says. 

“...Yes?” Lovett says. He almost never makes eye contact for this long. Jon wants to wrap the way he’s feeling up in a bow. 

“Besides,” Jon adds, “there are other ways to feel close to you. I figure out new ones all the time.” 

Lovett freezes, still gazing at him, then buries his face in Jon’s shoulder. “You can’t just _say_ things like that,” comes his muffled voice. 

“Why’s that?” Jon says when he doesn’t continue.

“It makes me think this could really work,” Lovett says. 

Jon bursts out laughing. “God, well, I hope so,” he says. “Since you just told all 1.5 million weekly listeners that we’re together.” 

“No, I mean—” Lovett starts. He stops abruptly, then tries again: “I mean, when you say that, I. I. _I’m in love with you_.” 

“Oh,” Jon breathes. Then he smiles, uncontrollably, so hard it hurts his cheeks. 

“Is that—?” Lovett asks. 

“I’m in love with you too,” Jon says. He’s probably going to cry. ...Yep, he’s crying. He sniffles but manages to keep talking. “I thought—I didn’t want to say it too soon. It’s been—months, Lovett.” 

“Oh,” Lovett says. Then he’s smiling too, the big wide smile that makes his cheeks look so sweet, and shows his laugh lines in a way that makes Jon’s knees weak. 

“Oh,” Jon says, and leans in to kiss him some more. 

“Okay, lovebirds,” Tommy says from two feet away, making them both jump. “We’ve officially packed everything up, including your bags, and cleared out the theater.” 

Tommy pauses, expectant. 

“Uh, impressive.” Jon says dumbly.

“As your business partner, I’m telling you to detach so we can all leave and _go to sleep_. And not traumatize the event space staff, in case we ever want to come back to Portland.”

“Fair,” Jon says, awkwardly sliding his leg out from between Lovett’s. 

“Hmm,” Lovett says, looking at Tommy over Jon’s shoulder as he pulls Jon back in. “Give us a sec.” 

###

**Author's Note:**

> If the whole section where Lovett ribs Jon about the word "regolith" feels familiar, that's because I stole it from Lovett himself, who told the story at the end of the Lovett or Leave It episode ["Send Him Back"](https://crooked.com/podcast/send-him-back/) from July 20, 2019.
> 
> Do you have ten seconds? Tell me one thing you liked in the comments and make my day. :)


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